


it's not goodbye

by celestialtrans



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Chases, Gen, Psychological Horror, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialtrans/pseuds/celestialtrans
Summary: The gloved hand holding you is freezing, ice under blood-slicked leather, and you don't struggle. You don't want to see the hook.You don't want to cry for yourself.
Relationships: Danny “Jed Olsen” Johnson | The Ghost Face & Reader
Kudos: 19





	it's not goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuses for my absence and due to who i am as a person i cannot promise that i will post again any time soon
> 
> this is inspired by the tendency of high-ranking killers to drop the last survivor on top of the hatch. i was looking for something that explored the in-character aspect of things and decided to give my own half-assed take on it. i took a few creative liberties with actual in-game mechanics to make things feel slightly more realistic, so im sorry if thats not your thing. i did try my best to make it read as smoothly and believably as possible
> 
> there are no named survivors in this and the descriptions are pretty vague. narrator is not referred to as any specific gender

The wire slips from between your fingers, clammy and shaking and you lurch forward to grab it before it touches another clipped line, but it's worthless. Your wrist smacks into a working piston and electricity arcs off the generator with a loud pop and all the crows glaring down on you take off, flurries of flapping wings and raspy caws echoing off the trees. Throat swelling, sweat eases down the side of your neck as you let go of the wire again, this time tucking it between a rubber cuff. You can hear the beating of the crows' flight, circling over your head, and your heart races faster still as you begin to crawl away from the generator. 

Quietly, you pat the soft dirt down again from where your knees left indents, you step down on the side of your foot and begin walking backwards. Burning lungs, starved of oxygen in the shallowest breaths you allow yourself with each step, your eyes stay glued to the treeline and nonsensical shapes swirling in the midst.

You catch the edge of a box with your hand and, with a quick glance behind you, pull yourself into its shadow as you just start to make out the sound of pounding footfalls from somewhere beyond the clearing. The ground is cold under you, but you force yourself to hug as much of the darkness as you can, curling into a tight crouch. Pressing your scarf over your face, masking your skin from the light, you leave the smallest sliver open for your eyes. 

The mist rolls gently as the crows take their perches again, having lost sight of you, and the unsettling silence returns. You hold your hand over your chest with childish hopes of drowning out the sound of your heart, anything to disappear from the crushing weight of eyes prickling down your nape.

Branches bow close to one another, rustling in the cold gusts winding between them, and you suppress a shiver to strain your ears. 

Fire rips down your collar, and you finally feel the world quiver with death. It washes over you in a wave that makes your knees give out when you throw yourself forward, blindly grasping at the gash in your back and struggling to find your footing. Blood wets your palm, pain explodes under the pressure and the adrenaline pushes you to run, but you want nothing more than to just let go. You can hear his steps, twice your stride, closing in.

You cut the corner too close, slamming your shoulder into the boxes stacked there haphazardly, and a pathetic sound escapes you when the blade sinks between your shoulders. The world spins and you hit the pallet leaned opposite to the boxes just before you fall.

Painful spasms wrack your calves, begging you to stand, but the very thought of trying to move again makes your stomach twist in on itself, sick from the bleeding you can't staunch. You lay your cheek on the concrete, back heaving with labored breaths, and curl in on yourself. 

One hand lands on your shoulder, a knee presses into your ribs, and you're too tired to scream when the knife is ripped free. It hardly hurts, anymore. A weak gasp, little more than a pained breath, and you squeeze your eyes closed in time to feel yourself turn weightless, dragged up by your waistband stained with oil and the blood of the girl you couldn't save. The gloved hand holding you is freezing, ice under blood-slicked leather, and you don't struggle. You don't want to see the hook.

You don't want to cry for yourself. 

The way feels like eons, maybe because you can't see beyond the tendrils of black fabric billowing out with each heavy step. Maybe because you're somehow still holding onto these moments you have left.

His pace slows and you relax. The hook hurts so much worse when you're fighting it.

When you hit the ground, all your breath comes out in a rush and your adrenaline flares again. Your heart pounds in your throat, you can see him standing just before you and it's endlessly more frightening, confusing, you know the hook is just behind you and he makes no move to pick you up again.

Black pools to the ground beside you as he leans down, and you flinch at the feeling of hands lifting you by your underarms. Damp wood meets your back and you manage to grit your teeth against the pain, struggling not to sag over again. You lean your head back against the fence, forcing yourself to breathe deeply, and the fog in your vision lessens.

His movements are difficult to track even without the mist, silhouette blurred by that dark shroud rolling off his form in opaque waves. You can see him bend, reaching down to lift the hatch's heavy door open, and a bitter taste fills your mouth when his mask inclines toward you. It's every bit of resentment, anger, for the frozen mocking expression sculpted from dirty, blood splattered plastic staring back at you. 

The Ghost Face allows the hatch door to fall the rest of the way open with a resounding clang.

Your ragged breaths don't stagger, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of scaring you. He steps closer again, and you press yourself back against the dilapidated fence, turning your face away. 

One hand balls itself up in the front of your shirt, and you grunt in pain as you're pulled forward. You hold your gaze firm on the distant treeline, jaw clenched, willing yourself not to throw away the last of your energy by punching that stupid fucking mask off his face. You can see it tilt, inquisitive, just before he grabs you under your arms again.

You close your eyes. The old puncture in your shoulder aches.

You can feel your feet, nearly numb with pins and needles, drag over the soft ground, and it's the only warning you get before the world falls away beneath them. Whatever is left of your reflexes makes you reach out blindly, barely catching the side of the ladder, and it stops you long enough for you to look up.

Dark red eyes, piercing even through the shadows cast by thick layers of black hair, stare back just before the hatch slams closed.

**Author's Note:**

> readers can have little a unmasked ghost face, as a treat
> 
> i enjoy dbd ghost face a lot because of the implication that he is most likely human, like the ghost faces from the scream movies. him being a regular guy under the mask makes his dynamic with the survivors very interesting imo
> 
> thanks for reading :-)


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